Drain the pickles in a colander. In a mixing bowl, combine the eggs, 1/4 cup of the flour, buttermilk, hot sauce and cayenne pepper. In a second mixing bowl, combine the cornmeal, the remaining 2 cups flour, and the salt and pepper.
Preheat the oil in a deep fryer or large cast-iron pan until it’s hot. Dip the pickles in the buttermilk mixture, dredge them in the flour mixture, then drop them one by one in the pan. Fry until golden brown, about 4 minutes. Drain the fried pickles on paper towels and add more salt and paper to taste. Serve immediately.

In a sense, fear is the daughter of God, redeemed on Good Friday night. She’s not beautiful, mocked, cursed and disowned by all. But don’t get it wrong: she watches over all mortal agony, she intercedes for mankind. For there’s a rule and an exception. Culture is the rule, and art is the exception. Everybody speaks the rule: cigarette, computer, t-shirt, television, tourism, war. Nobody speaks the exception. It isn’t spoken, it’s written: Flaubert, Dostoyevsky. It’s composed: Gershwin, Mozart. It’s painted: Cezanne, Vermeer. It’s filmed: Antonioni, Vigo. Or it’s lived, and then it’s the art of living: Srebenica, Mostar, Sarajevo. The rule is to want the death of the exception. So the rule for Cultural Europe is to organize the death of the art of living, which still flourishes.

When it’s time to close the book, I’ll have no regrets. I’ve seen so many people live so badly, and so many die so well.